Flowers
by Bounce
Summary: Betsy tries and fails to deal with a terrible tragedy that has befallen the X-Men.


It was broken. She remembered how her mother had once fixed her Barbie doll, shoving the head back onto the hard plastic neck. It had been fixed. She tried it now, because it was broken. She didn't think it was supposed to make that sort of noise, a cracking, wet, squishing sound. She wondered if there was supposed to be grey things coming out of the nose. It didn't fix it. It had fixed her Barbie doll. It should have fixed it.  
  
She got up, walked across the room. She stumbled blindly over the broken remains of the chairs and the table. They'd be angry, when they got home. They'd be angry.  
  
She slipped out the door, feet slipping on the wet steps. It hadn't rained for a long time. And the steps were wet.  
  
She turned and looked at Warren. "It's a lovely day today isn't it?" He didn't answer. He never answered. He never looked at her. He never played with her hair any more.  
  
She turned away. Walked across the porch to the swing seat. She sat down, kicked against the wall, setting the swing in motion. The trees across the lawn weren't right. They should have been. Her mind shied away from the thought. The trees were right. They were just the way they were supposed to be. They were right. She didn't like them though. She twisted on the seat, turning away from the trees.  
  
The swing stopped moving. She got up again. Headed back into the kitchen. The fridge was open. Jean didn't like it when the fridge was left open. She couldn't find the door. And Jean didn't like it when the fridge was open. The door was on the floor. And that was wrong. Not wrong like the trees which weren't wrong because they were right. But it was wrong. She wondered why the floor was so wet. It didn't rain inside. But maybe it wasn't inside. Not really inside, because it didn't rain inside. And the floor was wet.  
  
She walked out the door. Storm would like some flowers when she got home. Storm always liked flowers. The flowers were brown. Brown and dead. And that was right. She knelt on the rock hard earth and pulled some out. Storm would like the flowers. Because Storm liked flowers. A clump of hair fell over her shoulder. It was dirty, matted and tangled. A few faint hints of purple shone though the dirt, through the black, flaking, dirt that covered it. She would have to have a shower tonight. Would have to have a shower only there wasn't any water. Not any more. The water was all gone.  
  
The lake was dry. She liked it better this way. She liked it better without any water in it. Scott and Jean were in the boathouse. She'd take them some of the flowers she'd picked for Storm. Jean liked flowers. Maybe Jean wouldn't mind that the fridge was open if she had flowers too.  
  
Jean was sitting on the deck. She always sat on the deck. She wondered when Jean had gotten so thin. Jean had never been thin. "I brought you some flowers." Jean didn't answer.  
  
She dropped the flowers. Walked away. Scott was never there anymore. He should be there. He was always in the lounge room. Leaking out of his nose. And that was wrong.  
  
Bishop was on the lawn still. She'd told him to move. He was being stubborn and wasn't listening. She kicked at the gun as she went past. He twitched slightly, dried vomit and blood caking his chin and shirt. He made an odd gurgling sound, that could have once been words. She laughed, because that was right. Bishop had tried to hurt her. And now he was sitting outside where it never rained anymore and not shooting things.  
  
She never noticed the bones that showed through the skin of her left arm. Had never noticed when she stopped being able to walk properly. Or when the rain had stopped.  
  
She laughed softly as she sat down on the steps. The boards had broken and cracked, sharp splinters of wood jabbed into her legs. She wondered when Charles was going to come home again and get his hover chair. It was wrong, him not having it. It wasn't supposed to be upside down on the lawn. But maybe it was because it never rained anymore and maybe the outside was inside now where the floor was all wet.  
  
She was hungry. She coughed slightly, thirsty. She thought that maybe she should get up now. But the fridge was open and it was wrong inside and table was broken and Jean would be mad because the fridge was open.  
  
She got up and walked inside. She headed upstairs, into her room. The room was wrong. She wondered when Bobby had started sleeping outside her door. And why he never woke up. Her mind shied away from that thought too. It was right. Her room was right. And Bobby could sleep there for as long as he wanted. She walked away quietly, trying not to wake him.  
  
She thought briefly that it was too noisy. She yelled and everything was right again. And everything was quiet again. She moved from room to room restlessly, touching the pictures, furniture, and flicked the television on. The screen showed nothing but a cracking white snowstorm and that was wrong. She lashed out, hitting it and bright red blood ran down her arm, streaking through the black flaking dirt that covered her. And that was wrong. Blood was supposed to stay in the inside.  
  
She turned away, walked into the bathroom. Tiny shards of broken mirror crunched under her feet. She never noticed. She wondered why Rouge spent so much time in the bath these days. Other people wanted to use the bathroom too. She turned and walked out again, heading back out to the kitchen with the fridge that was always open.  
  
And Warren never spoke to her anymore. Warren never moved anymore. 


End file.
